


People Will Talk

by Carenejeans



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: John: People might talk.Sherlock: People do little else.





	People Will Talk

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Whatever will they say?

John came awake slowly, from a pleasant dream that he couldn't remember, except for a strong impression that Sherlock had kissed him.

\---------

"Are you all right?" Sherlock's face was tense as he patted his hands over John's body in that manic way he had when he thought John might be injured, touching him lightly in various vital places, sliding his hands down John's arms, his thighs, up across his chest, touching his throat, his cheek. John let him get all the way to checking his eyes, breathing softly on his face, before he said, "I'm fine, Sherlock."

\---------

"I'm knackered," John said, hanging his coat on the rack. "Couldn't we at least have taken a taxi?"

"I wanted to think," Sherlock's voice was strangely husky.

John turned around. Sherlock was very close. "You couldn't think in a taxi?"

"Not with -- no." Sherlock said, moving closer.

John couldn't take a step back without tangling with a coat rack. He stood his ground. "Is there something you want, Sherlock?"

The expression on Sherlock's face was strange, midway between annoyance and entreaty.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said, grabbing at his hair. "I want _you_."

John stepped back and became entangled with the coat rack. Sherlock reached over his shoulder and steadied it. His lips were close to John's.

"Don't be -- don't be daft," John said weakly.

Sherlock touched his cheek. " _Please_."

\---------

It was the _please_ that undid him. Otherwise he might have resorted to some of his favorite dirty Army rules of combat to get the idiot off him, having been used as a lab rat by Sherlock before. Well, not for _sex_. That would be new. Even now, as Sherlock pressed him into the sofa, his cock hard against John's through two sets of clothing, his eyes bright with anticipation and -- something else John would figure out later -- John wondered, as Sherlock leaned over and kissed -- bit -- softly -- his neck, John thought, his breath coming harder -- it _could_ be a trick. It could be an experiment. It could be -- _oh_ , it could be, oh, god, Sherlock, _yes_ \-- Sherlock had no boundaries _at all_. He never _asked._ That's why John melted at _please._

\----------

"I've been wanting to do that for a long time," Sherlock said suddenly.

John bristled, his post-coital languor disturbed by the smugness in Sherlock's voice.

"Since when?"

"Since we met."

They were sprawled on the sofa, Sherlock sitting with his legs stretched out before him, slowly sliding into a horizontal position, John sitting more or less upright next to him, enjoying the freedom of just _looking_ at Sherlock's body, instead of the covert glimpses he'd stolen for months. Sherlock was running his fingers along John's thigh, his head cocked slightly as if concentrating, like a safe-cracker listening to a set of complicated tumblers. It was on the edge of ticklish, but John kept still, because he didn't want Sherlock to realize what he was doing and stop.

"You could have been a little bit clearer on that," he said.

Sherlock slid down deeper into the sofa, frowning. "Could I?"

"You said, and I quote, 'I consider myself married to my work.'"

"What a fatuous thing to say. Why did you take it seriously?"

John sighed. "To tell you the truth, I didn't question it very much. I wasn't looking for a partner either. And I wasn't coming on to you," he said, still irked by Sherlock's misapprehension.

"Pity," Sherlock said. "We could have--" he frowned.

"Could have saved yourself a lot of boredom." John leaned back and smiled. "You could have been giving me blow jobs instead of shooting at the wall."

Sherlock glanced at the wall. "Right."

"Instead of dragging me all over London looking for twenty different kinds of pipe tobacco, you could have just dragged me into an alley."

"But I--" Sherlock began. He closed his eyes. "It's an intriguing idea."

"Rather than scraping away at the violin of yours all night, you could have been--." He stopped as Sherlock winced. "What?"

"Oh. I thought you were going to make an awful pun. About flutes."

John laughed. "Flutes, yeah." Then he frowned. "What do you think Mycroft will say when you tell him?"

"Tell him what?"

"That we're, erm. That we've--" John stopped. What were they? Lovers? Friends with benefits? What had they done? Had sex, obviously, and quite good sex. Would they do it again? John hoped so. Was it making love? He wasn't sure.

He wasn't at all sure what he felt for Sherlock. But that was hardly new.

"That we've consummated our unlovely relationship?" Sherlock offered.

"That's one way to put it."

"Accurate, I think."

John had to agree. "You haven't answered my question."

"What will Mycroft say? Very little, if he follows form. What will he think? God knows. But as for finding out, he knows already."

"But we've only just -- even he's not that good."

"He's that good," Sherlock said. "He always knows what I'm doing. Sometimes I think he can read my mind."

John was less worried about mind reading as the more corporeal aspects of Mycroft's intel. "Always? I mean, when you're -- when we were --"

" _Always_."

"Has he had the flat bugged?"

"It wouldn't surprise me."

John couldn't help it. He looked furtively around the room. Bookcases. Mirror. Valences. Framed pictures. Bison's head. Headphones on the bison's head. They could be anywhere.

The skull grinned down from the mantle, its eyes dark and empty.

Or so John hoped.

\----------

John knelt between Sherlock's knees. He'd been here for _hours_. Hadn't he? His jaws ached. His knees hurt. He was getting a cramp in his _tongue_. He could feel Sherlock's implacable gaze through the top of his skull.

He looked up. Sherlock's face was bland, inscrutable; the only thing that gave away his effort was a slight glassiness to his eyes.

John pulled away and rocked back on his heels. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

Sherlock frowned at the stopwatch in his hand. "You were supposed to go for ten more minutes."

"This is pointless, Sherlock."

Sherlock made a face. "I wanted to test it with a partner. But fine. We'll try again later."

John made a face. But he couldn't help himself. "How do you do that?" He was still face to face, as it were, with Sherlock's cock. It was still hard. John felt it was mocking him.

"It's in the book."

"I'm sure it is," John said. "I want to know how _you_ do it."

Sherlock contemplated his erect cock. "In the words of a famous fire-eater, perhaps the question to ask isn't _how_ it's done, but _why_."

"I know _why_ you do it. Because you're an egotistical wanker who loves control. Married to your work is right. Your own dick won't have you after this."

"Don't be immature."

"I'm not being immature. What else is wanting to get some satisfaction in one's sexual encounters but mature, eh?"

John made as if to rise, but Sherlock leaned over and pushed him down. His eyes were glittering. "If it's satisfaction you want…"

John settled back into his chair. This was better. Yes. Much better. Sherlock knelt between his knees, with John's cock in his mouth. Lovely.

Satisfaction was quickly forthcoming.

John had no control at all.

John pulled on his pants, feeling obscurely like he'd been through some sort of hazing. "Did you pull that kind of stunt with Lestrade?" he said casually.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock said, after a pause that was just a shade too long.

"Wouldn't have stood for it, I'll wager."

Sherlock just looked at him.

"Oh come on. You and Lestrade have 'former' written all over you. Admit it. You were an item."

"Define 'item.'"

"Did you fuck?"

"Define 'fuck'." Sherlock said, a faint smile coming to his lips.

"Did you and Lestrade ever engage in any activity that could possibly be construed as sexual?"

"Well, put that way," Sherlock said. "Yes. Of a sort."

"Define 'sort,'" John said.

Sherlock looked at him through his lashes, then made a fist and pumped it up and down.

"Ah," John said. He leaned back into the sofa pillows. He closed his eyes. His hand drifted downward. It was slapped away, and Sherlock's hand closed on his cock, pleasurably. He was getting hard in Sherlock's lightly pressing fingers when Sherlock spoke.

"Enjoying yourself, Doctor Watson?" he said, in a perfect imitation of Lestrade's voice.

John's eyes flew open.

Sherlock leaned closer to him, smiling. He gave John's cock a good squeeze.

"Are we having a threesome?" he said. "Whatever will Geoffrey say about that?"

"I-- I--," John stuttered. Sherlock squeezed. "Wait a minute, what?"

"I imagine he'll be… intrigued," Sherlock said musingly. "I'll ask him," he added briskly.

" _Ask_ him?" John wanted to be horrified, wanted to stop Sherlock and protest, _are you mad?_ But he was all mixed up with thoughts of Sherlock and Lestrade and a hand around his cock.

" _Gregory_ ," he said.

\---------

Sherlock was damp and pink from the shower, his hair curling in wet ringlets all over his head. He was wrapped in a dressing gown, but that's as far as he'd gone to get dressed. He sat contemplating a mug on the table in front of him, turning it slowly between his fingers.

John sat down across from him. "Tea?"

"Coffee," Sherlock said.

"Sorry, we don't have any."

"No," Sherlock said. "Molly. She wanted to go for coffee."

John poured a cup of tea. It was lukewarm. He set it aside. "You've just figured that out?"

Sherlock grimaced.

"For someone who can deduce a man's sexuality by the way he rolls his trousers, you can be criminally unobservant."

"Obviously," Sherlock's lip curled derisively. But his voice was sad.

John watched him curiously. "Wait. Are you feeling -- guilty?"

Sherlock's head came up, making John think of an impatient stallion.

"Of course not. Why should I feel guilty? I'm not responsible for other people's feelings."

"Right," John said.

Sherlock seemed to shrink a little. "I was just wondering what she'll say," he said. "when she realizes. About--" he flapped his hands between them.

"I think she already has."

"You think? On what basis?"

"Observation," John said dryly.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table. "Has she said anything to you?"

"No, Sherlock, she hasn't. She won't. She does have her pride. Even if you seem to take pains to crush it on a regular basis."

"Perhaps I could--"

"No, Sherlock," John said firmly.

Sherlock bounded from his chair and paced the length of the flat, holding the top of his head. He stopped suddenly and stood in the middle of the room staring at something John couldn't see. He pivoted to face John. "Right," he said softly, as if the solution to a complex problem in chemistry had been revealed to him.

John picked up his cup and took it over to the microwave, hoping there were no sheep's eyes inside. "There's hope for you yet," he muttered.

\---------

"I heard you two banging in on the stairs again. All hours of the night! Did you catch them?"

"We did, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, preening.

"I never doubted it. Oh, look what you've done to the sofa, it looks like someone was using it for a trampoline. Did they follow you here?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson. That's John's doing."

John sputtered. "I believe it was your fault, Sherlock."

"Et tu?" He turned to Mrs. Hudson. "I must confess, it was I who used the sofa as a trampoline. John was on it at the time. The temptation was too much to bear."

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Hudson turned to John, who felt his face flaming. "Are you quite all right? Sherlock, you shouldn't use your friend so hard." She winked at John, "I was one for the trampoline in my day. So to speak. You know."

"I'm not--" John stopped. It had come out of his mouth automatically, out of habit. "Erm."

"There, there," Mrs. Hudson said, patting his arm. "We can't help who we are. Or," she said, "Who we end up with. Take it from me, dearie. It could be worse."

"Right," John said. He smiled wanly.

Mrs. Hudson tsk-tsked a bit more about the condition of the sofa. Sherlock made a show of plumping the pillows and smoothing the covering. Mrs. Hudson laid a tray of tea cakes on the table and left, gaily trilling over her shoulder, "You two have a nice day, and don't destroy any more of the furniture than you can help!"

John fell into his chair, with both hands covering his face.

Sherlock closed the door behind her and sat down in the chair opposite John. "Have a cake. Are you all right?"

"Not barking yet," John said from between his fingers.

"Well," Sherlock said around a mouthful sugary cake. "I guess we don't have to worry about what Mrs. Hudson will say."

John lowered his hands. "Were you worried about Mrs. Hudson?"

"No."

John sighed and chose a cake. "She probably has a pattern picked out for us."

\----------

John was sure that whatever people might imagine he and Sherlock did in bed, this wasn't it. Sherlock had been rummaging around in a case file he'd lifted from Lestrade; it was in bits and pieces all over his duvet. John tried not to look too closely at the grisly crime scene photographs. People wouldn't understand at all. He considered their circle of friends and arch-enemies. Lestrade and Molly, Anderson and Mycroft.

Possibly they'd understand only too well.

Sherlock looked at him sideways, as if he'd read his mind. "There were a pair of artists in L.A., performance artists, I suppose you'd call them," he said. "They once painted several dozen canvases for an exhibition, all with the slogan "Sex is Stupid." On opening night, they trapped the crowd in a reception room, blasting overloud music and plying them with unlimited free drinks. When everyone was thoroughly drunk and a bit addled by the noise, they opened the doors. The crowd stormed the studio, and the paintings were sold in a matter of minutes."

"There were probably a lot of art lovers with buyer's remorse the next morning." John ran a finger down Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock sighed but didn't acknowledge the caress. "Is there a point?"

"Don't you think it was brilliant?" Sherlock focused suddenly on John. "They pranked people into publicly acknowledging a commonplace but unspoken belief."

"So you… think sex is stupid?" John said, his caress faltering.

"Don't you?"

"Well…" John frowned. "Not _stupid_ , exactly. Awkward?"

"Graceless, inelegant, undignified, mortifying." Sherlock said.

"Mortifying? That's a bit strong," John said.

Sherlock suddenly took up John's hand, as if he'd known what John had been doing all along. His face was intent, serious, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "If we were taped having sex, wouldn't you be mortified if it appeared on social media?"

John looked around a bit wildly. "Is someone taping us?" He frowned. "Why is the skull in here?"

"It helps me think." Sherlock shook his head. "No, of course not. Who would tape us shagging?"

"Mycroft." John said feelingly, still eyeing the skull.

"No. I've spoken to him."

John rolled over on his back, letting out a sigh. "Right. Well, at least he won't post it to Instagram."

"Probably not," Sherlock agreed. "But the point is, you'd be embarrassed. Mortified."

"So would you, I should think!"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'd be mortified if I were taped eating breakfast. But sex is more embarrassing than toast points."

"Well, yes."

"All that grunting and grasping, crawling over each other like alley cats in heat, begging and demanding…"

"Inserting bits into each other's bits," John offered hopefully.

"And yet, it's something people do on a regular basis. Like brushing their teeth or playing computer solitaire."

John nodded. "Exactly like brushing one's teeth and playing computer solitaire."

Sherlock gave him a look. "And yet, it's the one of the most serious activities humans engage in. People are killed over it."

"Right," John said. He frowned at the ceiling. "That's stupidity of a different kind. Can we just stick to sex is stupid ha ha?"

"Then you agree?"

John sighed. "Yeah."

"Say it, then."

"Why?" John was suddenly suspicious.

"I want to hear you say it."

"Where's your phone?"

"Out on the mantle. Off. Do you have a phobia about being recorded?"

"Only since I met you. Turn the skull around. It's eyeing me."

"It hasn't got eyes," Sherlock said, rolling his own. But he turned the skull to face the wall.

"Fine," John said, thinking of all the _other_ things people might demand a partner say in bed. _Beg. Talk dirty to me. Say you want it. Tell me you love me._ "Sex is stupid. Oof."

Sherlock was like a cat. One moment he was stretching, seemingly oblivious to the effect the fine arch of his back was having on you. Then he _pounced_ and there you were, pinned to the bed.

"It is, isn't it? Sherlock smiled down at him. "Given that, if I were to say let's do it again -- what would you say?"

John grinned. "I'd say yes."


End file.
